This is just he begining Sukuna x reader
later down the line this will become sukuna x reader x geto x gojo
Words - 4,600
Demeanor: Clinical, detached, and strictly professional (on the surface). ❄️
Hybrid au
So far Sukuna - dragon serpent hybrid
The fluorescent lights of the Higher Ups’ briefing room hummed with a clinical, soul-sucking frequency. You stood at the center of the polished wood floor, your lab coat feeling like a shroud. Behind the traditional paper screens, the silhouettes of the elders sat like jagged mountain peaks imposing, cold, and utterly indifferent to your survival.
"Project 0-Ryomen," the central voice grated, the sound like dry husks rubbing together. "The Hybrid. A pinnacle of biological and cursed evolution. And, as of now, your sole responsibility."
A file slid across the table. You didn't open it; you already knew the rumors. You knew about the three predecessors, senior biologists, experts in their fields whose bodies had been recovered in states that defied medical categorization. One had been desiccated as if drained by a predator; another had been found with their internal organs rearranged like a macabre puzzle.
"Three others have failed to... provide an adequate evaluation," the voice continued. "They lacked the temperament. They were too loud. Too fragile.."
"There are no guards in the containment suite," you noted, your voice remarkably steady despite the cold sweat prickling your spine.
"Guards are a provocation," a second shadow hissed. "Sukuna does not tolerate 'lesser' threats. He views them as insects to be crushed. You, however, are a scientist. You are a fly on the wall. You will enter the suite alone. You will observe. You will evaluate. You will survive or you will be replaced."
The walk to the high-security wing felt like a descent into an abyss. When the final titanium door hissed open, the air changed. It wasn't just cold; it was heavy. It felt coiling, like a physical weight settling onto your shoulders, constricting your lungs.
You stepped inside, and the door sealed behind you with a final, echoing thud.
The First Evaluation
He doesn’t sit like a captive. He sits at the center of the cell, legs folded, a simple gray shift barely concealing the veins of obsidian scales climbing his collarbone. The room is supposed to strip him of dignity, but he wears the sterile emptiness like a robe. He looks less like an inmate and more like a king, bored by the ceremony of his own court.
"You’re new," he says. His voice is deep, smooth, and carries that haunting, double-layered echo that vibrates in the marrow of your bones. "The last one was... brittle. He couldn't stop his hands from shaking when I looked at him."
You don't let your hands shake. You click your pen, your white lab coat a stark barrier between your humanity and his divinity.
“ I’ve been assigned to evaluate your cognitive and biological stability, Subject 01."
Sukuna’s head tilts a slow, predatory serpent-like glide of his neck. His slit pupils are a faint, burning crimson today, glowing against the sterile white of the cell.
"Subject," he repeats, a faint smirk pulling at his lips to reveal a flash of a forked tongue. "A brave word for a little bird in a cage made of glass. Do you think those walls protect you? Or do they just keep the rest of the world from seeing what I’m going to do to you?"
You ignore the bait, focusing on your tablet. "Your vitals show a heat spike. Are the scales along your ribs sensitive to the ambient temperature?"
You step closer to the glass, peering at the way the light catches the dragon-like patterns on his skin. They shimmer like oil on water. Suddenly, Sukuna is there. He doesn't step; he glides across the room in a blur of motion, appearing directly in front of the glass.
The air in the booth feels suddenly heavy, coiling around your throat like a physical weight. It’s his aura—a predatory constriction that makes your lungs feel half-empty.
"Why don't you come inside and check for yourself, Scientist?" he murmurs. His hand presses against the glass. His fingernails are slightly elongated, dark and sharp, tapping against the reinforced surface with a rhythmic, hypnotic clack.
At this distance, the light shifts. You see them the phantom eyes flickering beneath his primary pair, four burning points of light that promise a violence the human mind can't comprehend. Shadowed horn nubs seem to catch the overhead lights, casting crown-like silhouettes on the wall behind him.
"I'm here to record data, not satisfy your boredom," you say, though your pulse is a frantic drum against your ribs.
"Data," Sukuna huffs, a faint heat distortion rippling the air around his body, making the space between you look like a desert mirage. "You want to know if I'm a dragon or a snake. If I'm a god or a beast."
He leans in closer, his breath fogging the glass, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.
"You're looking for answers in a ledger," he whispers, the double-echo of his voice sounding right in your ear despite the barrier. "But you’ll find them in the dirt. When the Higher-Ups realize they didn't build a cage... they built an altar. And they’ve finally brought me a priestess worth keeping."
You take a step back, the coiling weight of his aura finally forcing a gasp from your lips. He watches you with a dark, satisfied amusement, his extra eyes flickering out of existence as he settles back into his controlled, serpent-like grace.
"Go on," he gestures with a clawed hand toward the door. "File your report. Tell them I’m stable."
He turns his back to you, but you see the way the scales on his wrists shimmer, a warning of the power leaking through the cracks.
You find out cameras don’t like him.
The footage should have been routine.
You sit alone in the observation booth hours after your shift, the glow of the monitor washing everything in sterile blue. Your stylus taps lightly against your tablet as the recording plays back: Subject 01, seated, still, composed.
Too composed.
You slow the footage.
Sukuna lifts his head.
Even through a recording, the moment his gaze aligns with the camera, something… slips.
The image distorts.
Not a glitch no pixelation, no signal loss. It’s subtler than that. Like the system itself doesn’t know how to hold him. His outline blurs at the edges, light bending wrong around his form.
You pause. Zoom in.
His face sharpens and for a single frame four eyes stare back.
Not flickering. Not implied.
Present.
Your breath catches.
You scrub backward.
Play.
Two eyes.
Again.
Pause.
Four.
You sit back slowly, the stylus slipping from your fingers and clattering against the desk.
“…Wooh.”
The audio track crackles.
You hadn’t touched it.
Sukuna’s voice bleeds through the speakers low, layered, wrong.
“You’re looking too closely.”
The timestamp doesn’t match the moment on screen.
You shut the monitor off.
But for a second longer than it should, his silhouette remains burned into the black.
The next day.
The fluorescent hum of the observation room is the only sound as you finish the entry. The report is simply designed to be a shield of bureaucracy between you and the thing in the tank. You keep it that way on purpose.
“Subject remains stable. No escalation in hostile output. Continued observation recommended.”
The words are clinical. Detached. Safe. They ground you in the reality of the facility, far from the unsettling implications of Subject 01’s existence. Your pen moves steadily across the page, the scratch of ink on paper a familiar, comforting rhythm.
Then—it stops.
The air in the room suddenly feels too thick to breathe. Your chest tightens, a cold band of pressure squeezing your lungs. A sharp, disorienting skip jolts through you, a physical glitch that makes the world tilt. Your heart stutters once… twice… a frantic, uneven beat that echoes in your ears.
And then it resumes.
But it isn't the same. The frantic pace is gone, replaced by something slower. Heavier. Each beat lands like a measured, tectonic knock against your ribs, deliberate, powerful, and utterly unfamiliar. It’s a rhythm that doesn't belong to a human body.
You press your palm flat against your sternum, your fingers trembling. Your pulse is a slow, rhythmic thrumming that vibrates through your entire frame.
“…What?”
The word is a ghost of a sound in the empty room. You look toward the reinforced observation glass, though you can see nothing but your own pale reflection. Beyond those walls, past the layers of lead and the humming dampening fields, something shifts.
You don’t see it. You feel it. It’s a coiling awareness, vast and ancient, like a leviathan turning in its sleep deep beneath the ocean. It’s a presence that fills the gaps in your own consciousness, a silent weight pressing against the back of your mind.
You drop your hand, your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. The rhythm continues. It’s steady. It’s certain.
But it’s not yours. Not entirely.
Hours later, the silence of the facility feels predatory. You sit before the digital logs, your eyes burning from the blue light of the monitor. When you reach the data for the final hour of your shift, your throat goes dry, the metallic taste of fear pooling under your tongue.
At 21:43—the exact moment your heart skipped—Subject 01’s vitals changed.
The chaotic, high-frequency spikes of its resting state vanished instantly. The heart rate adjusted. The pattern altered. On the screen, the green line of the subject’s pulse moves in a slow, heavy arc.
It is perfectly aligned… with yours.
The sterile white of the observation booth has begun to feel like a vacuum after that day. For fourteen days after, the data has been perfect unnervingly so. Sukuna has been a model of predatory stillness, his vitals flatlining into a hypnotic, rhythmic pulse that mimics a hibernating serpent.
Until the hunger strike began.
It started small. A tray of high-protein raw lipids left untouched. Then, the specialized nutrient infusions you developed specifically for his hybrid physiology were found shattered against the reinforced far wall. Now, it’s been forty-eight hours.
You stand at the glass, your tablet reflecting the faint, flickering crimson glow of his eyes in the darkened cell. Sukuna hasn't moved from the center of the room. He looks thinner, the scale-like patterns along his collarbone and ribs standing out in sharp, obsidian relief against his skin. They don't just shimmer anymore; they seem to pulse with a dull, agitated heat.
The air in the booth is thick with the smell of parched earth the telltale sign of his power leaking. The heat distortion around him is so intense that the back wall of the cell looks like it’s melting.
"Subject 01," you say, your voice cracking slightly through the intercom. "Your caloric intake is at zero. If this continues, I will be forced to authorize a sedative and a gastric tube. Don't make me do that."
Sukuna doesn't look up. His head stays bowed, the shadowed outlines of his horns casting long, jagged silhouettes against the floor.
"Sedatives," he echoes. The double-layered vibration in his voice is heavier now, more guttural. "You think your chemicals can quiet a hunger like this, Scientist?"
Suddenly, he moves. It isn't a walk; it’s that terrifying, gliding serpent-motion. He is at the glass in a heartbeat, his face pressed so close his slit pupils are all you can see. His phantom eyes aren't just flickering anymore they are locked open, four burning embers of irritation.
"I'm not eating because the fuel you provide tastes like ash," he hisses. He tilts his head, a flash of his forked tongue darting out to taste the recycled air near the ventilation grate. "A dragon doesn't thrive on pellets and paste. A dragon needs life."
He raises a hand, his elongated fingernails scraping against the glass with a sound like a violin string snapping. The heat radiating from the other side of the barrier is starting to bake the air in your booth.
"You're failing your evaluation," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, coiling register that makes your skin break out in goosebumps. "You sit there with your ledgers and your white coat, watching me starve. But you aren't looking at the right data point."
He leans in, his breath fogging the glass despite the cooling systems.
"Look at my pulse. Look at the way the scales on my wrists are turning black. I’m not dying. I’m shedding."
Your heart skips. A hybrid shedding cycle is undocumented territory it’s a period of extreme physical transition and heightened aggression.
"If you want me to eat," Sukuna says, his gaze dropping to the pulse point in your neck, his eyes glowing with a predatory gold, "stop sending the guards. Stop sending the machines. Come in here yourself. Let me see the color of your blood, and maybe I’ll find an appetite for something else."
He pulls back, his claws leaving faint, white scratches on the "unbreakable" glass. He’s testing you.
The day After.
The suggestion hung in the sterile air of the observation booth, a professional wedge driven between your safety and his predatory boredom.
You didn't step closer to the glass. You clicked your pen, your eyes fixed firmly on the digital readouts of your tablet, refusing to let him see the sudden spike in your own heart rate.
"If it’s biological simulation you require, I will file a request for live prey," you said, your voice a cool, clinical shield. "The department can source non-human apex predators for environmental enrichment. But let me be absolutely clear, Subject 01. Under no circumstances will I be entering your cell. My observations will remain strictly ocular and remote."
Through the reinforced glass, Sukuna went eerily still. The heat distortion around his body rippled, making his broad shoulders look massive, the scales along his collarbone shimmering like dark obsidian. He tilted his head, his neck snapping into that smooth, fluid serpent glide.
"Prey," Sukuna murmured, his voice layering with that dark, vibrating double-echo. "You’re going to send me beasts in cages. You think watching a wolf bleed will satisfy a dragon?"
He stepped closer to the glass, his crimson slit pupils dilating until they almost swallowed the gold irises. A tiny, quick flash of his forked tongue tasted the air vents.
"You’re a coward, Scientist," he hissed, his elongated fingernails tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the glass. Click. Click. Click. "You want to study the monster, but you don't want to get your hands dirty. Fine. Send your offerings. I’ll see if their bones make better music than your voice."
The response from the Board of Directors came back faster than you expected. In the cold, high-rise boardroom of the facility, the executives didn't see a captive animal; they saw a weapon system that needed calibration.
When you opened the digital brief, your stomach dropped.
Directive 04-B: Enrichment and Combat Calibration
Phase 1: Standard canine/feline apex predators (Leopards, Timber Wolves).
Note: This will serve as a double-blind evaluation. We are testing the Subject's metabolic absorption rates and his combat ceiling. Let him hunt. Increase the threat metrics weekly.
They didn't just want to feed him. They wanted to test him. They wanted to see if the hybrid could shred a three-hundred-pound grizzly bear without breaking a sweat. They were turning your sterile research facility into a blood-sport arena.
The First Drop
Forty-eight hours later, the automated hydraulic lift in the floor of Sukuna’s cell hissed open.
From your observation booth, you watched as a massive, starved timber wolf was pushed up into the enclosure. The animal was terrified. Its hackles were raised, its tail tucked between its legs as it pressed its back against the white wall, whimpering at the sheer, suffocating aura coiling in the room.
Sukuna didn't move from his seated position in the center of the room. He didn't even stand up.
He just slowly opened his primary eyes. The faint, crimson glow of his pupils flared, and the phantom eyes beneath them flickered to life, four burning points of absolute malice. The shadowed nubs of his horns seemed to grow heavy, bending the light around his skull.
The wolf didn't even growl. It let out a single, broken whine and collapsed to the floor, paralyzed by the sheer, crushing weight of Sukuna’s predatory presence.
Sukuna slowly stood up, his movements fluid, gliding toward the shaking animal. He looked up at your observation glass, a slow, dark smirk spreading across his face as his sharp fingernails caught the overhead fluorescent lights.
"A wolf," Sukuna murmured, his voice echoing through the intercom. "How generous of your masters, Scientist. Shall we see how long it takes for it to stop breathing?"
He didn't look at the beast. He kept his glowing, four-eyed gaze fixed directly on you as he reached down, his elongated claws hovering over the wolf's throat.
Sukuna doesn’t strike with the frantic energy of a predator; he moves with the bored precision of a butcher. His gaze never wavers from the glass, pinning you to your seat even as his hand descends.
With a flick of his wrist a movement so casual it looks like he’s dusting off a sleeve the air itself seems to sharpen.
There is no sound of a struggle, only the wet, heavy thud of something solid hitting the floor.
The wolf’s head doesn't just fall; it is erased from its shoulders by a Dismantle so clean the beast doesn't even have time to whimper. Blood paints the white floor, spatters Sukuna’s legs. He doesn’t flinch; he doesn’t even look down at the carcass as the copper stink floods the observation booth.
And then the link hits you.
It’s not just empathy, not just shock. It’s euphoria, sick and sharp. Your heart hammers once, twice, then falls into sync with his—a heavy, predatory rhythm that shouldn’t belong to you. You feel the ghost of blood on your skin, the heat of the kill tingling in your fingertips.
Sukuna’s smile widens. He knows. He lifts a blood-slicked hand, drags a claw across his throat—a lazy, mocking gesture.
“Did you feel that, Scientist?” His voice is a purr, thick and wrong, vibrating in your bones. “Tell me… does your heart still beat for yourself? Or is it mine now?”
The facility at night is a tomb of concrete and humming wires, but for you, the silence is a lie.
In the darkness of your living quarters, the link isn't just a medical anomaly on a screen; it’s a tether. It feels like a cold, invisible wire threaded through your sternum, pulled taut across the miles of reinforced steel that separate you from his cell.
Inside Containment Unit 01, Sukuna does not sleep. He doesn't need to. He sits cross-legged in the center of the dark chamber, his four eyes closed, yet he is more "awake" than any human. Through the link, he is mapping you.
You remember the first night, the link, the unsettling feeling, the pain.
Sukuna tilts his head back in the dark, a low, guttural chuckle vibrating in his throat. In your room, miles away, your own throat vibrates with the exact same frequency. You gasp, clutching your neck, but the sound that comes out of your mouth carries the faint, ghostly rasp of his voice.
He touches the cursed marks on his arms, tracing the ink with a sharp nail. In your bed, you feel a searing heat crawl across your own skin, as if an invisible pen is drawing invisible lines over your flesh.
He is marking you from the inside out.
Through the intercom which should be powered down for the night a whisper curls into your ear, though the speakers remain dead. It’s the link translating his thoughts directly into your auditory nerve.
"Don't bother closing your eyes, Scientist," he murmurs, his amusement a physical pressure against your ribs. "I can see exactly what you're dreaming of. And I think... I'll make it much, much worse."
He’s playing with you but you won’t let him get to you.
Too bad he already has.
It’s the next day.
It happens fast.
Too fast for protocol.
The guard assigned to Sukuna’s sector has been restless all morning pacing, muttering, letting his nerves slip through the cracks of his professionalism.
You notice it.
Sukuna does too.
“Creepy bastard,” the guard mutters under his breath, just loud enough to carry through the observation speakers.
You look up sharply.
“Officer—maintain—”
He doesn’t finish.
He drops.
Hard.
His knees hit the floor with a sickening crack. His hands fly to his throat, fingers digging in as if trying to tear something invisible away.
He’s still seated in the center of the room, one elbow resting lazily against his knee, chin propped against his hand.
Watching.
The guard’s body convulses, breath strangled into wet, desperate gasps.
“Override medical now!” you snap, already moving.
And then—
It stops.
Just like that.
The guard collapses forward, coughing violently, dragging air back into his lungs like he’s been underwater.
Silence floods the room.
Sukuna’s gaze drifts from the trembling man…
to you.
A faint smile ghosts across his lips.
“Fragile things shouldn’t raise their voices.”
You stare at him.
Not because he hurt the guard.
But because
He didn’t kill him.
Things just keep happening. The next day isn't any better.
You’re careful.
You’ve been careful from the start.
Names are control. Identity is distance. You gave him neither.
“Subject 01,” you begin, not looking up from your tablet, “we’ll proceed with—”
“That’s not what they call you.”
Your pen pauses.
Just for a fraction of a second.
You don’t look up.
“…Clarify.”
Silence stretches.
You can feel it the way his attention narrows, sharpens, settles on you like a blade hovering just above skin.
Then, softly
Too softly
He says your name.
Your full name.
Not the one on your file.
The one you haven’t used in years.
The one no one here knows.
Your grip tightens around the pen.
You keep your expression neutral. Controlled.
Professional.
But your handwriting doesn’t resume.
Sukuna exhales, amused.
“There it is.”
You finally look up.
His eyes are on you steady, knowing, patient.
Not guessing.
Not testing.
Certain.
As if things couldn’t get worse.
You don’t remember falling asleep. One second you’re at your desk, the hum of the facility steady and grounding.
The next—
You’re inside the containment room.
No glass.
No barrier.
Just white walls and silence that feels too complete.
Your breath catches.
Slowly, carefully, you turn—
Empty.
He’s not there.
Your pulse spikes.
A presence.
Behind you.
Close.
Too close.
“So this is where you hide your spine.”
Your body goes rigid.
You turn—
Sukuna stands there, towering, shadows clinging to him like something alive. The faint outline of horns catches the light, his eyes burning too bright in the sterile room. You step back instinctively. There’s nowhere to go. He steps forward.
Not rushed.
Not aggressive.
“You’re much quieter in here.”
His gaze drags over you, not like a man looking at a person, like something assessing ownership.
You open your mouth—
And wake up.
Back in your chair.
Your tablet is still in your hand. The lights haven’t changed. Nothing has moved.
You suck in a breath, sharp and unsteady.
“…Just a dream.”
You check the monitors anyway.
Sukuna is exactly where he should be.
Seated.
Still.
But—
He’s smiling.
The invitation to the "High Council" chambers was less a request and more an administrative summons. The room was subterranean, chilled to a precise 18°C, and smelled of ozone and expensive cologne. The three directors sat behind a curved obsidian desk, their faces obscured by the harsh downward glow of the recessed lighting.
The Phase 1 and 2 biological culls have been... informative. Subject 01 has shown a 98% efficiency rate in neutralising apex predators. His metabolic absorption of raw essence is stabilizing. However, his psychological metrics are troubling."
You opened the file. The pages were filled with red-inked notations of Sukuna’s behavior during the hunts: Non-compliant. Mocking. Targeted aggression toward observation glass.
"He’s a hybrid of two of the most territorial archetypes in existence—Serpent and Dragon," another director added, leaning into the light. "He doesn't view this facility as a prison. He views it as his hoard. And he views you as a curiosity, not an authority."
You looked down at the detailed requirements for the upcoming "Obedience Test," and the blood drained from your face. You just hope he listens. You don’t want to be degraded in front of him, he’ll probably enjoy it too.
It’s time now.
They want proof.
They always do.
“Give him a command,” one of the higher-ups says from behind the glass, arms crossed, voice tight with forced authority. “We need to establish baseline obedience.”
You don’t respond immediately. You know what they’re asking. You also know what it means if it works.
He lowers himself to the ground, folding into a seated position with perfect ease.
No resistance.
No hesitation.
Obedient.
A breath of relief ripples through the observation room behind you.
You don’t feel it.
Because Sukuna hasn’t looked away from you.
Not once.
“See?” he murmurs, voice low, pleased. “I can behave…”
His head tilts slightly.
Eyes narrowing, not in defiance
In interest.
“…when I’m given a reason.”
And suddenly, it’s very clear—
He didn’t listen to them.
The moment the test ends, the council’s interest evaporates. The lead director stands, straightens his suit with a sharp tug, and avoids your eyes. One by one, the elders rise from their seats behind the glass, their faces carved into masks of professional satisfaction and clinical detachment.
“Well, that will suffice,” the central voice says, already sliding papers into a briefcase. “We have what we need for now. Document the results and maintain protocol.”
You nod, barely trusting your own voice. Your hands are cold, the clipboard slick where your palm rests.
The doors hiss open. Footsteps echo heels on marble, the shuffle of expensive shoes on polished floors. The board members filter out in a line, whispering to each other in clipped, coded tones that mean nothing to you and everything to the fate of what’s locked just feet away.
The last one pauses by the door, gaze flicking between you and the observation glass. A calculated, empty smile. “Remember, Doctor: containment is a matter of willpower as much as engineering. Don’t let him feel your fear.”
The door swings shut behind them, sealing you inside the booth with the hum of ventilation and the silent weight of Sukuna’s attention.
Alone again, you exhale long, shaky trying to convince yourself that you’re still in control.
That’s when the lights begin to flicker.
Then everything dies.
Alarms split the silence, shrill and merciless. Red emergency lights flare, painting the corridor in violent warning. Your monitor flashes: Barrier integrity: 30%.
Panic punches cold through your gut.
Inside the cell—
Sukuna rises, as if he’s been waiting for this precise moment. He stands with the kind of patience that makes you realize the locks, the walls, the security systems—all of it—was never for him.
Every instinct shrieks: Run. Move. Survive.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re rooted in place, heart hammering, every nerve on fire.
He approaches the glass.
Each step is unhurried. Deliberate. He’s in no rush. The red glow catches on the obsidian scales along his collarbone, makes the shadowed horns look like a crown.
He stops just inches from you.
The pressure hits—suffocating, coiling around your lungs, your ribs, your mind. The air is so thick with his presence you can barely breathe.
He raises a hand.
For a heartbeat, you’re certain: This is it.
He presses his palm flat to the glass, directly over your chest. Over your heart.
He doesn’t strike.
He doesn’t shatter the barrier.
He just holds you there pinned by the weight of his gaze, the certainty in those ancient, inhuman eyes.
“Not yet,” he says soft, final.
In an instant, the lights snap back to white. The alarms choke off, leaving a ringing silence. Barrier integrity returns to normal.
Sukuna lowers his hand, turns, and walks back to the center of the cell. Calm. Untouched. Like nothing happened at all.
Your legs refuse to work. You can’t move.
Because one truth echoes, louder than the alarms, louder than the pounding of your heart:
He could have left.
He chose not to.
Before I leave you here's a little blurb of kind of smut DOn't LOOK
Part of my series, Deadheading - trueform!sukuna x reader
Abandoning the horrid past and moving towards a bright future
Synopsis: How Ryomen Sukuna grew from a weak, frail child into the feared King of Curses. All with a little love, of course.
Description: Heian!era sukuna x reader, yes he will be true form. Childhood friends to lovers, I feel like thats the omly way he will truly love someone.
Word count: 223
MASTERLIST
Note: I'll try to post every 1-2 weeks
Nothing is immune to corruption. Not the plants commonly described as strong, persevering organisms, nor the animals praised as pure, innocent beings, incapable of sin and acting on pure instinct. Especially not the humans, who greed, lust, pride, envy, and wrath. The very humans who do as they wish, neglecting their duties and overindulging. Nevertheless, shadows are but the presence of light. Everyone’s light is different. Some find light in their hobbies, some in others, and some in the beauty of the world.
But for an abandoned child, ostracized for his monstrous form, any source of joy was nothing but a distant dream. For a child whose sides are lined with two arms each, whose face is adorned with double the eyes, and whose abdomen has a horizontal split making way for a maw decorated with rings of serrated fangs, one above and one below, all there is to think about is survival. There is no time to satiate his wants.
But nobody is helpless. The broken can return into their most glorious state.
This was proven true once he met a child as pitiful as he, who, despite her pathetic state, maintains a pure heart, reaching out a helping hand. Only once he’s looking up at her smiling form, waiting for him to join her, does he notice how bright she glows.
Abandoning the horrid past and moving towards a bright future
Synopsis: How Ryomen Sukuna grew from a weak, frail child into the feared King of Curses. All with a little love, of course.
Description: Heianera!sukuna x reader, yes he will be true form. Childhood friends to lovers, I feel like thats the only way he will truly love someone.
Note: I'll try to post every 1-2 weeks!
TAGLIST - comment or contact me to enter!
Masterlist:
Prologue
A peek into the start of their story
Chapter 1: Seeding
Everything and everyone is interdependent. Such is the requirement to live.
Trueform!Sukuna in modern times. Wears either the baggiest of hoodies he can possibly find for when he feels chilly or the heaven sent tank top with low cut sleeves that is barely held together at the shoulders and at his waist....
Pairs the hoodies with comfy low rise sweats. Keeps his hoodie pushed up over his tummy mouth; it doesn't like to be covered by the thick material and will drool all over it until it's taken off.
Pairs the tank tops with basketball shorts slung low on his hips. The tummy mouth doesn't mind the tank tops as much, but sometimes it pokes its tongue out of the low cut armholes and pants like a dog.
Sukuna tries to push its tongue back into its home, but sometimes he really can't control it and it really does act like a puppy, viewing this as playtime and pulls his wrist into its mouth to chew softly on his fingers. He lets it.
It's not until it bites a little to sharply and draws blood he withdraws, it's a hungry blood thirsty thing and always demands a daily taste of blood. Be it his own or otherwise.
Today he feels lazy, so it's going to settle for his own..... He's barely cooked for himself today so why would he hunt for his gluttonous stomach?
